Play It Again
Title: Play It Again
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: R
Characters: America/Russia
Premise: As the war grinds on, America and Russia find themselves sharing a drink or ten in Casablanca.
Quick note to all our readers: Due to technical difficulties, the Index had to be reposted. Please update your bookmarks and links. I'm really sorry for the inconvenience. -Pyrrhic
Casablanca, Morocco. January 22nd, 1943.
Fifteen minutes into staring at the line of bottles decorating the bar--whisky, vodka, some local thing he didn't recognize, all gleaming in glass bottles, soaking up the evening light--Russia decided he didn't want any. He shifted his elbows against the polished wood counter and dropped his head down into his arms. The bartender let him be.
Russia closed his eyes.
A thin breeze spiraled onto the patio, lined with the leftover desert heat. Someone climbed up into the bar stool next to him. The lush dark wood creaked and settled. Russia didn't stir.
He heard the barman tick back across the tile floor and ask, "Something to drink?"
"Yeah, hi," America answered. "I'll have whiskey. Straight. He'll have vodka."
"No, I won't," Russia mumbled into the crook of his arm.
Both America and the barman ignored him. America peeled off his glasses, rubbed his face with both hands, and exhaled.
After a moment, he observed, "I thought you were busy in Stalingrad. I didn't think you were coming."
The air trapped between his face and the bar was going stale, so Russia sat up. His back seized in response. "I am." His eyelids felt heavy. He rubbed his eyes. "I'm not here."
America considered that. "Oh. You're spying on us?" The bartender put their shots down in front of them. He picked his up and waved it a little in thanks.
"Yes." Russia dragged a finger around the rim of his glass. He wanted to drink it--but he wanted to smash it into America's face more. "Only when I had nothing else to do."
"Yeah, it's a nice town." America snapped his drink back and grimaced. The bartender glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and he nodded. His glass was dutifully refilled. "Doesn't spying work better if I don't find you in the bar three blocks away?"
"Do you honestly think you'd even see me if I hadn't already filed my report?" Another moment of contemplation, and then Russia drank. The alcohol burned going down. Awful stuff. Not the worst he'd ever had, but damn close.
He gestured for the bottle.
"That's a good point." America sounded too tired to argue. He slouched down on the bar, folded an arm in front of him and rested his chin on his wrist. His fingertips caressed the earpiece of his glasses, folded shut in front of him.
Russia stared at the light glinting dully off the lenses. He poured himself another glass, tried to damp down the ache in his ribs as his men fell, thousands of miles away. His hand tightened on the edge of the bar as he knocked back another shot, and he flicked his gaze up to America's face. "What is it you want, exactly?"
"Nothing." America sucked whiskey between his teeth. Then, wiping a golden film from the corner of his mouth, "Well. I'd kind of like to keep drinking until I black out, but I have shit to do tomorrow morning."
"Isn't the war in the Pacific going well for you?" Russia couldn't summon up the energy to put an edge in the question. Well, he meant it, anyway.
America sighed and rested his cheek in the crook of his arm. He turned his shot glass and watched the light reflect off the rim. "Just super," he mumbled.
Russia sighed, ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Glad to hear it," he growled. He didn't know why he hadn't left yet. Or at the very least, punched the bastard. He took another shot. Six or seven more of those and he just might.
They drank in silence for a little while. The evening breeze sighed sand across the radiant blue floor.
"Rotting to death," America mused. He had moved on to his fourth shot, stared into it. "That's a problem."
The neck of the bottle clinked gently against the rim of Russia's glass as he refilled it. "How awful," he said flatly.
America just glanced at him, then went back to gazing at the soft gaslit glow on the bar.
Pour. Stare. Drink. Russia lost himself in the rhythm of it as the shadows deepened around them, turned the blue tiles black. America's elbow was in his space. He made faint plans to say something scathing--Pour. Stare. Drink.--scrapped them--Pour. Stare. Drink.-- and remade them all over again.
"I'm not paying for a room for you if you pass out." He realized America was watching him.
Russia blinked and dropped the--empty?--bottle to the counter with a glassy thud. "What?" America waved a hand in front of his face, and he shoved it away. "Stop," he snapped. "I'm fine."
America dropped his arm back to the bar. He shrugged and turned back to his whiskey. "Suit yourself. Want another bottle?"
Pain lanced up Russia’s spine, suddenly, and he winced his eyes shut. He wondered how many brigades he'd lost. "Not from you," he bit out.
America watched him with an odd expression until he finished cringing. Then he looked down into his hands folded around his glass, and muttered, "You sure you shouldn't just sleep?"
Russia reached out and grabbed America's chin, forced eye contact. "Shut up."
America twitched. His skin was warm under Russia's fingers. Russia tried to let go, then, but his--his hand wouldn't let him. He blinked heavily, and realized they were staring at each other. Something prickled across the back of his neck.
America's hand snarled into the sleeve of Russia's coat, near the shoulder. He got out, "Jesus Christ, Russia." Then he snapped his jaw shut tight and swiped his glasses off the counter. He snarled, "Oh, for fuck's sake." He waved to the barman. "Yeah--excuse me, yeah. Where do I go to pay for a room?"
"Pay for your drinks, first."
"Right, whatever..." He let go of Russia to pull out his wallet and thumb through his billfold.
"I'm not going to owe you anything," Russia said distantly. He slapped two fifties down on the bar. His stool creaked as he braced himself and stood. The tiles swam before his eyes, pulling and twisting like tar. It was exhaustion; a single bottle wouldn't have this effect on him.
"Sit down, Jesus--I'll go get a room and come back for you, don't argue with me." America pushed his glasses on and slid to the floor, slid his hand down Russia's arm in a reflexive gesture that he recoiled from at the end like a burn. Russia jerked back and slumped into his seat. He buried his face in his hands. His breath reeked of alcohol, and his chest felt heavy, and everything hurt. He nodded, eyes cringed shut.
America left him there. He had no idea how long it was before he came back, but the bartender had made his change and he could still taste foul vodka when America's hand closed around his shoulder.
"Come on." A key hung from his third finger.
Russia got to his feet. A bruised, hollow noise had started ringing in his ears when America tried to pay--it was louder now. America worked an arm around his waist, or around his ribs, more, bearing him up. His fingertips dug in. Russia could feel the dull pressure through his coat. "Two floors up," America said, and shrugged Russia's arm over his shoulder. His voice had a strange texture to it, a vibrating edge.
"Don't need you to--" Russia's voice faltered, stopped, as America's fingers braced hard against his side. He watched the stairs, made sure he took every step slowly. The last thing he wanted was for America to have to keep him from falling. The last thing he wanted was America touching him at all.
His hand fisted in the other nation's sleeve. America's body was a long, warm pressure down his side. He didn't know why he couldn't swallow, and he thought he could feel America trembling.
America's breath came short and sharp by the time they reached the door of room 327. He kept his jaw clenched and his eyes anywhere but on Russia. He fumbled the key into his hand and jammed it into the lock without letting go of Russia, even when he had to brace his hip against the door to get the lock to turn. The room beyond was cool and dark.
Russia shrugged him off, the movements feeling slow and sticky, and tried to stand on his own. He couldn't get a feel for anything--he couldn't even find the bed. The light from the hallway spilled in a dim sliver across the carpet, and caught the frames of America's glasses. Russia's breath hitched--that ringing noise had grown to a roar--and he tapped the door closed with his foot. The room plunged into darkness.
America gave a quiet gasp, and then Russia was borne back against the door. America had one arm fixed low and snug around his waist, holding him up, into him, and his other hand braced against the wall next to Russia's ear. He had barely registered this when America kissed him, then dragged his lips from Russia's mouth into his hair. Neither of them could see a thing.
The doorknob dug into the small of Russia's back, and he twisted away from it, pressing himself tighter into America's arms. This--this didn't...It was all sensation: the throbbing ache at the base of his neck, the fingers curled into claws against his hip, the hate and revulsion and terror and want screaming inside him-- He braced his forearm against America's chest, barred him away. His other hand slid up America's arm, dug into his shoulder and pulled him in closer.
America grabbed Russia's wrist, yanked his arm out from between them, and stepped into him. He deposited Russia's hand on his hip and raked his fingers up into Russia's hair, clenched him into another scalding kiss. Russia closed his eyes--and there was no difference between looking and not anymore, none at all--and returned it, bit America's lip and dragged his tongue roughly over the mark. His arm came up and settled at the base of America's neck, and he forced their bodies together. Every point of skin that touched America started to burn, wrists, lips, hands...Russia choked back a moan.
America groaned and rubbed his whole body against him, knotted his fingers in his coat and hair--and then jerked away from him, left him cold and breathless and leaning against the door. He heard a bump, a clatter, and then there was light. America stood by the bed with one hand still on the bedside lamp and the other at the knot of his tie. That came off, and his jacket, both thrown to the floor.
Russia reached behind him and, after a moment of fumbling, locked the door. He never took his eyes off of America. His fingers stumbled to the buttons of his light coat, and he unfastened them slowly, one by one, still pressed against the door, still staring. He let his coat slide down his arms when he was finished, and suddenly the high collar of his shirt felt too thin, because--because his scarf was dangling over a chair in his rooms at the Kremlin, his boss had made him leave it... He licked his lips, and his hand hovered over his neck.
America flicked his glasses onto the nightstand, then looked back at Russia, who still hadn't moved, and stalked towards him like a predatory cat. He caught Russia's hand, kissed his palm, then pulled him close, off the door and into his arms. America's hands crawled up his back, down his arms, over his hips and shoulders and ass and everywhere he could reach (except his neck). He walked them unsteadily back towards the bed. The light was too bright, but Russia decided faintly that he could stand it.
He arched into America's hands and curled his fingers into his hair, tugged his head back and exposed the long line of his throat. His fingers worked at the buttons of America's shirt as he left a trail of hot, biting kisses over his--perfect--neck. His breath shuddered out of him, half-vocalized and meaningless. He backed up, folded himself down when he felt the mattress against the backs of his legs, and drew America over him.
America kept his head tilted up to make room for Russia's kisses, and felt down Russia's shirt to open his buttons. He made it halfway, to just under the arch of Russia's ribs, before his back tensed and he ripped open the rest. Then America's searing hands were running over his bare skin, and he worked a thigh down between Russia's legs and rolled his hips into him.
Russia went rigid, then ground up into America, decorated his throat with livid bite marks. He didn't remember getting America's shirt open, but he was somehow dragging his fingernails over his chest and ribs, digging them in hard whenever America's breathing changed. He felt charged, white-hot, sucking down air in open-mouthed gasps. His free hand slid down to the curve of America's ass, and he forced their hips together.
"Oh, Jesus--" America's voice was barely audible, and he twisted his head to expose more of his neck. Long shudders raked through him. "You remember--"
Russia felt a flash of horror in his gut, but then America wrenched open belts and buttons and zippers, and got both of them half-exposed before he lost patience and shoved his hand into Russia's pants, palmed him roughly and wrapped around him. Russia's voice broke around another moan, and he nudged his hips up into America's touch. The faint buzz of alcohol still made his vision spin, and the fatigue sent dull flashes of pain up his arms, but everything was--was better now. He breathed America's name, once, and fumbled for the waistband of the other nation's slacks.
Soon they both had kicked and scrambled out of the rest of their clothes, and when they had, America pulled away and crawled to the foot of the bed. He crouched between Russia's legs and dragged his hands up his body--from his ankles, up his legs, over his hips, until they were braced against his chest and America stared down at him from under a glowing veil of golden hair. He hesitated.
Russia surged up and kissed him, hungry and desperate. He couldn't hear anything beyond the ringing in his ears, couldn't see past America, couldn't feel anything but his hands. The backs of his eyelids were flashing red--air, he needed air--before he finally broke away. "Go on," he rasped, and America was the only thing that wasn't moving. "What are you waiting for?"
America flashed him a smile, that gorgeous smile, the first real one he'd seen in ten years. He pinned Russia back by his hair and kissed him, plunged his tongue into his mouth, and then broke away far enough to wet his fingers and reach his arm down between them. Russia felt sharp, sudden pressure, and then America's fingers were pushing inside him, working him open, while America's mouth dropped hot, fast kisses over his face, his cheeks and mouth and under his eyes.
Thinking, breathing was beyond him. A gentle twist of America's wrist, and Russia muffled a groan with the back of his hand, dug his teeth into his own knuckles. His eyes were steady over the top of his hand, boring into America's, not begging, never begging, but--but, God, he didn't know what he'd do if America stopped. His hips bucked upwards, into empty air. "Now." The word tore out in a snarl.
America let out a soft laugh that held itself at odds to the way he shivered, barely felt and invisible under the golden paint of lamplight. He hitched up Russia's leg, withdrew his hand and left Russia empty (alone) for a few seconds before he pushed into him. America's breath came out all at once, and he raveled both arms around Russia and dug his fingers into his side and shoulders as he started to move inside him.
Russia went rigid, curled his hands into claws against the sharp juts of Americas shoulder blades. He tipped his head back, let his gaze slide up to the ceiling as he sucked in a sharp breath and sawed his hips back into America. No. He forced himself to look down and meet America's eyes. He raised a hand to America's face, and for a moment, he was going to cup his cheek in his hand...
He reconsidered. His fingers twined into that golden hair instead.
America's lips thinned, and he only held Russia's gaze for a moment before he closed his eyes and dropped a kiss to the right of Russia's mouth, and then buried his face against Russia's shoulder. But his fingers curled hard into Russia's hip, and from there slipped to grip his erection, and his other hand found its way, gently, into Russia's hair. America worked into him long and deep and quick, and he made brittle hitching sounds, like he couldn't catch his breath.
Russia hated how close he was, so soon, but he dug his heel into the small of America's back, and urged him in tighter, faster. America's panting little breaths made something deep in his chest tremble in response. The lamp--still too bright--blazed in the very corner of his vision, and he looked away and hid against America's hair. He dug his fingers against America's scalp, the small of his back arched off the bed entirely, and there was nothing he could do to untangle himself.
It only lasted a few minutes, both of them sweat-shining and clinging to each other, breathing hard against each other's ears, shielding each other from the light. America kissed his hair over and over again as he fucked him, and Russia dug his nails into America's back. America ground in sharply for an aching interval of seconds before he gave a rough, low groan and went still. His hand around Russia kept working fast and desperate, and he pushed their mouths together.
That was all it took. Russia's voice shook on a last moan--it sounded pained, even in his own ears--and he came, hard, over both their stomachs. He kissed America frantically, grasping at him, trying to drag him in. It hurt.
It felt like a long time passed, with America lying heavy over him, only half supported on his knee and forearms. America kept kissing him, smoothing back his hair with warm fingertips, hot and urgent, at first, but slowing, deepening, until it was soft and tender and searching. America's arm blocked the lamp from the corner of Russia's eye. He gently drew out, their lips still together, and exhaled.
Russia reached up and wrapped his arms tentatively around America, holding him down, close. His head was still ringing, and the room still flickered through confusing periods of motion and--and America's chest was resting flush against his, damp with sweat. He pulled away, just a little, and dropped his forehead to America's shoulder. Fatigue and disorientation swept over him.
America cupped his head in close, and reached over him to fumble the lamp off. The sudden rush of darkness was merciful. They had half-raked up the blanket and sheets, and America lay down beside him and tugged the covers over them. He kissed Russia's forehead, breathed "Just don't say anything," and drew him in close. Their arms and legs tangled together.
Russia nodded, tipped the side of his head against America's jaw, and slept.
---
Light. It was the first thing he could be bothered to notice.
It flooded through the single, high window, pale and warm over the doorknob, the rough blankets, the white tile floor, the golden stretch of skin an inch from his face--
Russia froze.
He closed his eyes, waited, opened them again. The room was still there, horribly tangible. He was curled against America's chest, his forehead pressed against his collarbone, arms clenched around him so tightly he could feel America's heartbeat through his whole body.
The--the vodka...the fucking vodka.
America stirred a little, nudged his cheek against the side of Russia's head and resettled his arms around him. He was wrapped just as tight around Russia as Russia was around him. They had clung to each other in their sleep like drowning men would to floating spars.
Russia flexed his fingers. No response from America. He carefully unwound his left arm from where it was tangled under America's head and half into his hair. He was only gentle because he had to be--his head wasn't throbbing badly enough to distract him from how furious he was. Surveillance, that was all this was supposed to be about. And then he'd let himself--let--let that happen.
God damn it.
He considered shoving America off, getting up and going for his abandoned coat crumpled near the door, fishing through his pockets for the cigarettes he knew were still there, and then decided that he wasn't going to surrender to cliché. He fell back heavily into the bed, suddenly not caring if America woke up.
America blinked those blue eyes open, and he found Russia in the morning sunlight. He tilted his head at him with a look of vague, sleepy confusion--and then blinked again, clarity rapidly gaining ground, and Russia remembered that, how swiftly America moved from insensible to wide awake--and then he slammed his eyes shut, buried his face against Russia's shoulder, and went very still.
He could feel America's eyelashes against his skin, and it was...was awful, and he was going to-- "Look at me," Russia snapped.
America eased back far enough to meet his eyes. The corners of his eyes and mouth twitched as he struggled to keep his face clear of any expression.
Russia allowed himself a single, selfish moment to look into that blue. His entire body shuddered on little pains, a few dull jolts of discomfort. America's hands rested against his skin, one on his back, the other light on his ribs. It shifted every time he took a breath. "My boss..." That familiar sensation of dread hammered in his chest. He fought to keep his voice level. "He can not hear about this."
"Who the fuck am I gonna tell?" America wondered--and then he paused, narrowed his eyes and peered at Russia.
Russia leaned away and shot America a glare. "What?"
"...Nothing." America turned his face against his pillow. After a moment, he disentangled his arms from around Russia and propped himself up on his elbows. He rubbed his eyes.
The sheets pooled around Russia's hips as he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. "This was a mistake," he said finally.
America threw him a narrow look over his shoulder, as if to say You don't have to tell me. His head dropped forward, and he laced his fingers around the back of his neck.
A line of bite marks stood out red and raw below the heels of America's hands. Russia stared at them. Several of them--one near America's jaw, and another at the very base of his throat--were starting to bruise. And he could still taste them. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. "Wear something with a collar to your next meeting," was out of his mouth before he could even think.
America looked up, startled. He ran his fingertips around the circle of his neck. Those touches paused over the worst of the marks as he found them--and his expression underwent a, a strange transformation. America's eyes dropped half-closed, and at the very corners of his mouth, he smiled.
Russia frowned. "Is there something funny about all this?"
That dreamy look cleared from America's face. He dropped his arm to the mattress. "What do you mean?" He half-sat up, drew one leg beneath him.
"You were smiling," Russia said. He rubbed roughly at his own neck, felt the thick, raised lines of scar tissue against the palm of his hand. They made his stomach lurch. They always did.
"I was?" America asked, in obvious confusion. His eyes followed the movement of Russia's hand and drifted to his neck.
Russia shrugged, watched America watch him. His fingers curled against his pulse. "Never mind." A pause. Then: "Aren't you meeting with England this morning?" It wasn’t half as snide as it should have been.
"You'd know, wouldn't you?" America sounded more indifferent than antagonistic. He felt around in the sheets for their clothes, on the floor, sorted them into piles on the bed of what belonged to who. He tugged his pants out from where they were wrapped up in the sheet, stood, and started getting dressed. "Look, I'm sure neither of us want to be seen leaving here together. I'll go get a cup of coffee down the street, you clear out, and I'll come back in an hour or two to check out. Okay?"
"Mm." Russia fell back against the pillows and tucked his hands under his head. His eyes found a crack in the ceiling. "That's fine," he elaborated.
America's eyes fell on him, lingered on him for a few seconds, and then he snapped his collar down and finished putting on his clothes. His shoes and glasses went on last. He tucked the key in his pocket and left without saying a word.
Russia waited until the sound of America's footsteps faded down the hall, and then he sat up and felt around in his pile of clothes. He fumbled into two pockets, three...there. A pack of cigarettes.
He lit up and let his gaze wander back to the bright paint chipping off the walls. America's spot beside him was already cold. Russia thought desperately about nothing at all.
+++
--The Casablanca Conference was held at the Anfa Hotel from January 14 to the 24th. Roosevelt and Churchill were both present, but Stalin, while he had been invited, declined to attend, due to the developing situation in Stalingrad. At the Casablanca Conference, the Allies agreed to begin their invasion of Italy through Sicily, and further agreed that the only way the war could end would be with the unconditional surrender of the Axis forces.
--The Battle of Stalingrad took place between July 17, 1942, and February 2, 1943. It was the bloodiest battle in modern history, with a combined two million casualties. The Soviet counter-offensive which eventually trapped and destroyed the German 6th Army was the first large-scale German defeat of the war, and is often cited as one of the war's major turning points.
--Did you know? The Pacific Front was a real thing, that actually happened! While it was primarily a naval war, the ground fighting which did take place had some of the most inhumane and horrifying battlefield conditions of any war in the modern era. Trench warfare in the tropics, you guys. Make a note to avoid it.
+++
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: R
Characters: America/Russia
Premise: As the war grinds on, America and Russia find themselves sharing a drink or ten in Casablanca.
Quick note to all our readers: Due to technical difficulties, the Index had to be reposted. Please update your bookmarks and links. I'm really sorry for the inconvenience. -Pyrrhic
Casablanca, Morocco. January 22nd, 1943.
Fifteen minutes into staring at the line of bottles decorating the bar--whisky, vodka, some local thing he didn't recognize, all gleaming in glass bottles, soaking up the evening light--Russia decided he didn't want any. He shifted his elbows against the polished wood counter and dropped his head down into his arms. The bartender let him be.
Russia closed his eyes.
A thin breeze spiraled onto the patio, lined with the leftover desert heat. Someone climbed up into the bar stool next to him. The lush dark wood creaked and settled. Russia didn't stir.
He heard the barman tick back across the tile floor and ask, "Something to drink?"
"Yeah, hi," America answered. "I'll have whiskey. Straight. He'll have vodka."
"No, I won't," Russia mumbled into the crook of his arm.
Both America and the barman ignored him. America peeled off his glasses, rubbed his face with both hands, and exhaled.
After a moment, he observed, "I thought you were busy in Stalingrad. I didn't think you were coming."
The air trapped between his face and the bar was going stale, so Russia sat up. His back seized in response. "I am." His eyelids felt heavy. He rubbed his eyes. "I'm not here."
America considered that. "Oh. You're spying on us?" The bartender put their shots down in front of them. He picked his up and waved it a little in thanks.
"Yes." Russia dragged a finger around the rim of his glass. He wanted to drink it--but he wanted to smash it into America's face more. "Only when I had nothing else to do."
"Yeah, it's a nice town." America snapped his drink back and grimaced. The bartender glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and he nodded. His glass was dutifully refilled. "Doesn't spying work better if I don't find you in the bar three blocks away?"
"Do you honestly think you'd even see me if I hadn't already filed my report?" Another moment of contemplation, and then Russia drank. The alcohol burned going down. Awful stuff. Not the worst he'd ever had, but damn close.
He gestured for the bottle.
"That's a good point." America sounded too tired to argue. He slouched down on the bar, folded an arm in front of him and rested his chin on his wrist. His fingertips caressed the earpiece of his glasses, folded shut in front of him.
Russia stared at the light glinting dully off the lenses. He poured himself another glass, tried to damp down the ache in his ribs as his men fell, thousands of miles away. His hand tightened on the edge of the bar as he knocked back another shot, and he flicked his gaze up to America's face. "What is it you want, exactly?"
"Nothing." America sucked whiskey between his teeth. Then, wiping a golden film from the corner of his mouth, "Well. I'd kind of like to keep drinking until I black out, but I have shit to do tomorrow morning."
"Isn't the war in the Pacific going well for you?" Russia couldn't summon up the energy to put an edge in the question. Well, he meant it, anyway.
America sighed and rested his cheek in the crook of his arm. He turned his shot glass and watched the light reflect off the rim. "Just super," he mumbled.
Russia sighed, ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Glad to hear it," he growled. He didn't know why he hadn't left yet. Or at the very least, punched the bastard. He took another shot. Six or seven more of those and he just might.
They drank in silence for a little while. The evening breeze sighed sand across the radiant blue floor.
"Rotting to death," America mused. He had moved on to his fourth shot, stared into it. "That's a problem."
The neck of the bottle clinked gently against the rim of Russia's glass as he refilled it. "How awful," he said flatly.
America just glanced at him, then went back to gazing at the soft gaslit glow on the bar.
Pour. Stare. Drink. Russia lost himself in the rhythm of it as the shadows deepened around them, turned the blue tiles black. America's elbow was in his space. He made faint plans to say something scathing--Pour. Stare. Drink.--scrapped them--Pour. Stare. Drink.-- and remade them all over again.
"I'm not paying for a room for you if you pass out." He realized America was watching him.
Russia blinked and dropped the--empty?--bottle to the counter with a glassy thud. "What?" America waved a hand in front of his face, and he shoved it away. "Stop," he snapped. "I'm fine."
America dropped his arm back to the bar. He shrugged and turned back to his whiskey. "Suit yourself. Want another bottle?"
Pain lanced up Russia’s spine, suddenly, and he winced his eyes shut. He wondered how many brigades he'd lost. "Not from you," he bit out.
America watched him with an odd expression until he finished cringing. Then he looked down into his hands folded around his glass, and muttered, "You sure you shouldn't just sleep?"
Russia reached out and grabbed America's chin, forced eye contact. "Shut up."
America twitched. His skin was warm under Russia's fingers. Russia tried to let go, then, but his--his hand wouldn't let him. He blinked heavily, and realized they were staring at each other. Something prickled across the back of his neck.
America's hand snarled into the sleeve of Russia's coat, near the shoulder. He got out, "Jesus Christ, Russia." Then he snapped his jaw shut tight and swiped his glasses off the counter. He snarled, "Oh, for fuck's sake." He waved to the barman. "Yeah--excuse me, yeah. Where do I go to pay for a room?"
"Pay for your drinks, first."
"Right, whatever..." He let go of Russia to pull out his wallet and thumb through his billfold.
"I'm not going to owe you anything," Russia said distantly. He slapped two fifties down on the bar. His stool creaked as he braced himself and stood. The tiles swam before his eyes, pulling and twisting like tar. It was exhaustion; a single bottle wouldn't have this effect on him.
"Sit down, Jesus--I'll go get a room and come back for you, don't argue with me." America pushed his glasses on and slid to the floor, slid his hand down Russia's arm in a reflexive gesture that he recoiled from at the end like a burn. Russia jerked back and slumped into his seat. He buried his face in his hands. His breath reeked of alcohol, and his chest felt heavy, and everything hurt. He nodded, eyes cringed shut.
America left him there. He had no idea how long it was before he came back, but the bartender had made his change and he could still taste foul vodka when America's hand closed around his shoulder.
"Come on." A key hung from his third finger.
Russia got to his feet. A bruised, hollow noise had started ringing in his ears when America tried to pay--it was louder now. America worked an arm around his waist, or around his ribs, more, bearing him up. His fingertips dug in. Russia could feel the dull pressure through his coat. "Two floors up," America said, and shrugged Russia's arm over his shoulder. His voice had a strange texture to it, a vibrating edge.
"Don't need you to--" Russia's voice faltered, stopped, as America's fingers braced hard against his side. He watched the stairs, made sure he took every step slowly. The last thing he wanted was for America to have to keep him from falling. The last thing he wanted was America touching him at all.
His hand fisted in the other nation's sleeve. America's body was a long, warm pressure down his side. He didn't know why he couldn't swallow, and he thought he could feel America trembling.
America's breath came short and sharp by the time they reached the door of room 327. He kept his jaw clenched and his eyes anywhere but on Russia. He fumbled the key into his hand and jammed it into the lock without letting go of Russia, even when he had to brace his hip against the door to get the lock to turn. The room beyond was cool and dark.
Russia shrugged him off, the movements feeling slow and sticky, and tried to stand on his own. He couldn't get a feel for anything--he couldn't even find the bed. The light from the hallway spilled in a dim sliver across the carpet, and caught the frames of America's glasses. Russia's breath hitched--that ringing noise had grown to a roar--and he tapped the door closed with his foot. The room plunged into darkness.
America gave a quiet gasp, and then Russia was borne back against the door. America had one arm fixed low and snug around his waist, holding him up, into him, and his other hand braced against the wall next to Russia's ear. He had barely registered this when America kissed him, then dragged his lips from Russia's mouth into his hair. Neither of them could see a thing.
The doorknob dug into the small of Russia's back, and he twisted away from it, pressing himself tighter into America's arms. This--this didn't...It was all sensation: the throbbing ache at the base of his neck, the fingers curled into claws against his hip, the hate and revulsion and terror and want screaming inside him-- He braced his forearm against America's chest, barred him away. His other hand slid up America's arm, dug into his shoulder and pulled him in closer.
America grabbed Russia's wrist, yanked his arm out from between them, and stepped into him. He deposited Russia's hand on his hip and raked his fingers up into Russia's hair, clenched him into another scalding kiss. Russia closed his eyes--and there was no difference between looking and not anymore, none at all--and returned it, bit America's lip and dragged his tongue roughly over the mark. His arm came up and settled at the base of America's neck, and he forced their bodies together. Every point of skin that touched America started to burn, wrists, lips, hands...Russia choked back a moan.
America groaned and rubbed his whole body against him, knotted his fingers in his coat and hair--and then jerked away from him, left him cold and breathless and leaning against the door. He heard a bump, a clatter, and then there was light. America stood by the bed with one hand still on the bedside lamp and the other at the knot of his tie. That came off, and his jacket, both thrown to the floor.
Russia reached behind him and, after a moment of fumbling, locked the door. He never took his eyes off of America. His fingers stumbled to the buttons of his light coat, and he unfastened them slowly, one by one, still pressed against the door, still staring. He let his coat slide down his arms when he was finished, and suddenly the high collar of his shirt felt too thin, because--because his scarf was dangling over a chair in his rooms at the Kremlin, his boss had made him leave it... He licked his lips, and his hand hovered over his neck.
America flicked his glasses onto the nightstand, then looked back at Russia, who still hadn't moved, and stalked towards him like a predatory cat. He caught Russia's hand, kissed his palm, then pulled him close, off the door and into his arms. America's hands crawled up his back, down his arms, over his hips and shoulders and ass and everywhere he could reach (except his neck). He walked them unsteadily back towards the bed. The light was too bright, but Russia decided faintly that he could stand it.
He arched into America's hands and curled his fingers into his hair, tugged his head back and exposed the long line of his throat. His fingers worked at the buttons of America's shirt as he left a trail of hot, biting kisses over his--perfect--neck. His breath shuddered out of him, half-vocalized and meaningless. He backed up, folded himself down when he felt the mattress against the backs of his legs, and drew America over him.
America kept his head tilted up to make room for Russia's kisses, and felt down Russia's shirt to open his buttons. He made it halfway, to just under the arch of Russia's ribs, before his back tensed and he ripped open the rest. Then America's searing hands were running over his bare skin, and he worked a thigh down between Russia's legs and rolled his hips into him.
Russia went rigid, then ground up into America, decorated his throat with livid bite marks. He didn't remember getting America's shirt open, but he was somehow dragging his fingernails over his chest and ribs, digging them in hard whenever America's breathing changed. He felt charged, white-hot, sucking down air in open-mouthed gasps. His free hand slid down to the curve of America's ass, and he forced their hips together.
"Oh, Jesus--" America's voice was barely audible, and he twisted his head to expose more of his neck. Long shudders raked through him. "You remember--"
Russia felt a flash of horror in his gut, but then America wrenched open belts and buttons and zippers, and got both of them half-exposed before he lost patience and shoved his hand into Russia's pants, palmed him roughly and wrapped around him. Russia's voice broke around another moan, and he nudged his hips up into America's touch. The faint buzz of alcohol still made his vision spin, and the fatigue sent dull flashes of pain up his arms, but everything was--was better now. He breathed America's name, once, and fumbled for the waistband of the other nation's slacks.
Soon they both had kicked and scrambled out of the rest of their clothes, and when they had, America pulled away and crawled to the foot of the bed. He crouched between Russia's legs and dragged his hands up his body--from his ankles, up his legs, over his hips, until they were braced against his chest and America stared down at him from under a glowing veil of golden hair. He hesitated.
Russia surged up and kissed him, hungry and desperate. He couldn't hear anything beyond the ringing in his ears, couldn't see past America, couldn't feel anything but his hands. The backs of his eyelids were flashing red--air, he needed air--before he finally broke away. "Go on," he rasped, and America was the only thing that wasn't moving. "What are you waiting for?"
America flashed him a smile, that gorgeous smile, the first real one he'd seen in ten years. He pinned Russia back by his hair and kissed him, plunged his tongue into his mouth, and then broke away far enough to wet his fingers and reach his arm down between them. Russia felt sharp, sudden pressure, and then America's fingers were pushing inside him, working him open, while America's mouth dropped hot, fast kisses over his face, his cheeks and mouth and under his eyes.
Thinking, breathing was beyond him. A gentle twist of America's wrist, and Russia muffled a groan with the back of his hand, dug his teeth into his own knuckles. His eyes were steady over the top of his hand, boring into America's, not begging, never begging, but--but, God, he didn't know what he'd do if America stopped. His hips bucked upwards, into empty air. "Now." The word tore out in a snarl.
America let out a soft laugh that held itself at odds to the way he shivered, barely felt and invisible under the golden paint of lamplight. He hitched up Russia's leg, withdrew his hand and left Russia empty (alone) for a few seconds before he pushed into him. America's breath came out all at once, and he raveled both arms around Russia and dug his fingers into his side and shoulders as he started to move inside him.
Russia went rigid, curled his hands into claws against the sharp juts of Americas shoulder blades. He tipped his head back, let his gaze slide up to the ceiling as he sucked in a sharp breath and sawed his hips back into America. No. He forced himself to look down and meet America's eyes. He raised a hand to America's face, and for a moment, he was going to cup his cheek in his hand...
He reconsidered. His fingers twined into that golden hair instead.
America's lips thinned, and he only held Russia's gaze for a moment before he closed his eyes and dropped a kiss to the right of Russia's mouth, and then buried his face against Russia's shoulder. But his fingers curled hard into Russia's hip, and from there slipped to grip his erection, and his other hand found its way, gently, into Russia's hair. America worked into him long and deep and quick, and he made brittle hitching sounds, like he couldn't catch his breath.
Russia hated how close he was, so soon, but he dug his heel into the small of America's back, and urged him in tighter, faster. America's panting little breaths made something deep in his chest tremble in response. The lamp--still too bright--blazed in the very corner of his vision, and he looked away and hid against America's hair. He dug his fingers against America's scalp, the small of his back arched off the bed entirely, and there was nothing he could do to untangle himself.
It only lasted a few minutes, both of them sweat-shining and clinging to each other, breathing hard against each other's ears, shielding each other from the light. America kissed his hair over and over again as he fucked him, and Russia dug his nails into America's back. America ground in sharply for an aching interval of seconds before he gave a rough, low groan and went still. His hand around Russia kept working fast and desperate, and he pushed their mouths together.
That was all it took. Russia's voice shook on a last moan--it sounded pained, even in his own ears--and he came, hard, over both their stomachs. He kissed America frantically, grasping at him, trying to drag him in. It hurt.
It felt like a long time passed, with America lying heavy over him, only half supported on his knee and forearms. America kept kissing him, smoothing back his hair with warm fingertips, hot and urgent, at first, but slowing, deepening, until it was soft and tender and searching. America's arm blocked the lamp from the corner of Russia's eye. He gently drew out, their lips still together, and exhaled.
Russia reached up and wrapped his arms tentatively around America, holding him down, close. His head was still ringing, and the room still flickered through confusing periods of motion and--and America's chest was resting flush against his, damp with sweat. He pulled away, just a little, and dropped his forehead to America's shoulder. Fatigue and disorientation swept over him.
America cupped his head in close, and reached over him to fumble the lamp off. The sudden rush of darkness was merciful. They had half-raked up the blanket and sheets, and America lay down beside him and tugged the covers over them. He kissed Russia's forehead, breathed "Just don't say anything," and drew him in close. Their arms and legs tangled together.
Russia nodded, tipped the side of his head against America's jaw, and slept.
---
Light. It was the first thing he could be bothered to notice.
It flooded through the single, high window, pale and warm over the doorknob, the rough blankets, the white tile floor, the golden stretch of skin an inch from his face--
Russia froze.
He closed his eyes, waited, opened them again. The room was still there, horribly tangible. He was curled against America's chest, his forehead pressed against his collarbone, arms clenched around him so tightly he could feel America's heartbeat through his whole body.
The--the vodka...the fucking vodka.
America stirred a little, nudged his cheek against the side of Russia's head and resettled his arms around him. He was wrapped just as tight around Russia as Russia was around him. They had clung to each other in their sleep like drowning men would to floating spars.
Russia flexed his fingers. No response from America. He carefully unwound his left arm from where it was tangled under America's head and half into his hair. He was only gentle because he had to be--his head wasn't throbbing badly enough to distract him from how furious he was. Surveillance, that was all this was supposed to be about. And then he'd let himself--let--let that happen.
God damn it.
He considered shoving America off, getting up and going for his abandoned coat crumpled near the door, fishing through his pockets for the cigarettes he knew were still there, and then decided that he wasn't going to surrender to cliché. He fell back heavily into the bed, suddenly not caring if America woke up.
America blinked those blue eyes open, and he found Russia in the morning sunlight. He tilted his head at him with a look of vague, sleepy confusion--and then blinked again, clarity rapidly gaining ground, and Russia remembered that, how swiftly America moved from insensible to wide awake--and then he slammed his eyes shut, buried his face against Russia's shoulder, and went very still.
He could feel America's eyelashes against his skin, and it was...was awful, and he was going to-- "Look at me," Russia snapped.
America eased back far enough to meet his eyes. The corners of his eyes and mouth twitched as he struggled to keep his face clear of any expression.
Russia allowed himself a single, selfish moment to look into that blue. His entire body shuddered on little pains, a few dull jolts of discomfort. America's hands rested against his skin, one on his back, the other light on his ribs. It shifted every time he took a breath. "My boss..." That familiar sensation of dread hammered in his chest. He fought to keep his voice level. "He can not hear about this."
"Who the fuck am I gonna tell?" America wondered--and then he paused, narrowed his eyes and peered at Russia.
Russia leaned away and shot America a glare. "What?"
"...Nothing." America turned his face against his pillow. After a moment, he disentangled his arms from around Russia and propped himself up on his elbows. He rubbed his eyes.
The sheets pooled around Russia's hips as he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. "This was a mistake," he said finally.
America threw him a narrow look over his shoulder, as if to say You don't have to tell me. His head dropped forward, and he laced his fingers around the back of his neck.
A line of bite marks stood out red and raw below the heels of America's hands. Russia stared at them. Several of them--one near America's jaw, and another at the very base of his throat--were starting to bruise. And he could still taste them. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. "Wear something with a collar to your next meeting," was out of his mouth before he could even think.
America looked up, startled. He ran his fingertips around the circle of his neck. Those touches paused over the worst of the marks as he found them--and his expression underwent a, a strange transformation. America's eyes dropped half-closed, and at the very corners of his mouth, he smiled.
Russia frowned. "Is there something funny about all this?"
That dreamy look cleared from America's face. He dropped his arm to the mattress. "What do you mean?" He half-sat up, drew one leg beneath him.
"You were smiling," Russia said. He rubbed roughly at his own neck, felt the thick, raised lines of scar tissue against the palm of his hand. They made his stomach lurch. They always did.
"I was?" America asked, in obvious confusion. His eyes followed the movement of Russia's hand and drifted to his neck.
Russia shrugged, watched America watch him. His fingers curled against his pulse. "Never mind." A pause. Then: "Aren't you meeting with England this morning?" It wasn’t half as snide as it should have been.
"You'd know, wouldn't you?" America sounded more indifferent than antagonistic. He felt around in the sheets for their clothes, on the floor, sorted them into piles on the bed of what belonged to who. He tugged his pants out from where they were wrapped up in the sheet, stood, and started getting dressed. "Look, I'm sure neither of us want to be seen leaving here together. I'll go get a cup of coffee down the street, you clear out, and I'll come back in an hour or two to check out. Okay?"
"Mm." Russia fell back against the pillows and tucked his hands under his head. His eyes found a crack in the ceiling. "That's fine," he elaborated.
America's eyes fell on him, lingered on him for a few seconds, and then he snapped his collar down and finished putting on his clothes. His shoes and glasses went on last. He tucked the key in his pocket and left without saying a word.
Russia waited until the sound of America's footsteps faded down the hall, and then he sat up and felt around in his pile of clothes. He fumbled into two pockets, three...there. A pack of cigarettes.
He lit up and let his gaze wander back to the bright paint chipping off the walls. America's spot beside him was already cold. Russia thought desperately about nothing at all.
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--The Casablanca Conference was held at the Anfa Hotel from January 14 to the 24th. Roosevelt and Churchill were both present, but Stalin, while he had been invited, declined to attend, due to the developing situation in Stalingrad. At the Casablanca Conference, the Allies agreed to begin their invasion of Italy through Sicily, and further agreed that the only way the war could end would be with the unconditional surrender of the Axis forces.
--The Battle of Stalingrad took place between July 17, 1942, and February 2, 1943. It was the bloodiest battle in modern history, with a combined two million casualties. The Soviet counter-offensive which eventually trapped and destroyed the German 6th Army was the first large-scale German defeat of the war, and is often cited as one of the war's major turning points.
--Did you know? The Pacific Front was a real thing, that actually happened! While it was primarily a naval war, the ground fighting which did take place had some of the most inhumane and horrifying battlefield conditions of any war in the modern era. Trench warfare in the tropics, you guys. Make a note to avoid it.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.